


Even a Broken Clock is Right Two Times a Day

by newyorks



Category: Fringe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amberverse, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newyorks/pseuds/newyorks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm missing something," She feels it but can't quite grasp at it; it's unsettling. She frowns and says, "I'm missing—someone." Peter & Altlivia have a conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even a Broken Clock is Right Two Times a Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Newbie here. First fanfic in a while, and first Fringe fanfic ever. This came to me after reading a prompt at the Fringe kinkmeme at Dreamwidth (so it's pretty random in itself). The last part is pretty random as well, and the ending is quite abrupt, but I suck at endings, so it's to be expected.  
> This is not beta'd, so any mistakes are my own.  
> Feedback is really appreciated (it's been years since I've written anything!).

There's something tugging at the back of her mind as she watches them interact from a fair distance. She can't quite describe it, but there's an uneasiness within her that’s quite unusual and discordant. The thought alone makes her nervous, but she can't shake it off; they're standing a few feet away, distant enough that she can't hear what they're talking about; still, it takes no fool to read their body language: they're both standing, he's leaning forward trying to catch her gaze, a small smile (probably unintentional but still there) tugging at his lips whenever he catches her stare. She, on the other hand, can't bear to look up, finding comfort in the dullness of the floor, restrained, hiding behind golden waterfalls of hair. She notices how she hides from him, can barely stand to look his way, and when she does, it's only for a few seconds. It's unnerving, and again, that feeling of uneasiness.

She knows who he is, or at least who he claims to be; someone who knows them all, someone who knows their secrets and knows some facts, knows how they work and what they're working on. He's from another timeline, he says. Not a parallel universe, but another _timeline_. It's a hard concept to grasp, one she isn't sure she quite understands, but she takes what she can get. There's something about this man though, something about the way he looks at all of them, like he really knows them that puts her on edge, but she doesn't question it much. She doesn't get the chance either.

So she stands there, pretending to go over reports over the other side of the room (even here, a theoretical neutral space, they are still divided), all the while staring at the odd pair, when suddenly he looks up, his eyes distractedly looking her way and catching her gaze; she gets a cold feeling, a shiver, and again that nervousness. She can't help but notice how he flinches, how his demeanor changes when he looks at her. Microscopic but still there; there's something of the icy kind going through his eyes, minuscule and fleeting, lasting barely a second, but she can't help but wonder.

He returns to his actual conversation, the small moment forgotten, his attention full on the blond in front of him, kindness already back in his eyes. Still, she can distinguish a discomfort about him, as if looking at her triggered some kind of reaction inside of him.

Several minutes later they separate and she pretends not to notice. _She_ leaves him with a file, something to do about a case probably, and then walk out the door to the other side. He sighs and sideway glances at her, setting his jaw, something resembling reluctance crossing his features. When he approaches her she pretends to be reading the report in front of her, and he pretends to believe her, all traces of his previous smile gone.

"Olivia told me to give you this," his voice is short, stern, military even. He won't meet her eyes when she looks up from the page in front of her (she'd be lying if she said she knew what the report was about) and her heart starts racing just a little bit. She pins it on being startled by him, nothing more. "It's about the new shapeshifter tech,” he continues. “We'll be back for the full review tomorrow." He drops the file unceremoniously and is about to turn when she speaks.

"You knew her, didn't you?" she asks. "Back in your timeline? You _knew_ her," she's grinning, that lopsided grin of hers that doesn't quite manage to be a full smile. He's halfway turned but he stops moving. He doesn't completely face her again though. "You knew all of us." He doesn't give her an answer. She knows he's not leaving because he doesn't want to be rude, but his body language shows different; he's itching to leave this place. He's itching to not talk to her. He's itching to go back to _her_. Yet, she continuous, "Did you love her?"

She knows she's struck a nerve now, can see it in the way his body tenses.

He also grimaces, and his face shows nothing but antipathy. “That’s none of your business.”

It’s the iciness in his voice that stops her from commenting. It’s a brutal contrast to his previous manner. It takes her a moment to compose herself, to remind herself that this man, this stranger is nothing to her, but is a potentially big deal to the Other. She doesn’t know why she lets the words get to her, doesn’t know why she lets his tone and his eyes and his demeanor affect her in such way; she doesn’t _know_ him. They’ve barely even talked. But then this occurs to her: it takes her a moment to realize it fully, that this is the first time in weeks she hasn’t felt empty; the first time in weeks she hasn’t felt the unfilled whole inside of her, that missing element in her life, something she feels like she keeps forgetting but can’t remember what or why; that _frustration_.

So she stares at him, her curiosity spiking, and when he looks up, bitterness in his eyes, there’s a pang in her heart and she forgets how to breathe for a moment. Their eyes meet, but she can’t stand the intensity she finds there. For all the devotion she saw when he was staring at _her_ , she sees the same amount of intense dislike directed her way. And while she’d be amused by such difference (really, they _are_ the same person after all) she can’t help but feel her heart dropping at the sight.

Her grin drops, and she look down at her hands, welcoming the distraction. “Did you know _me_?” she doesn’t know why she asks that, suddenly struck by the realization of the sadness within her. There it is, that nagging again, and she feels like she’s about to remember something dearly important, that something that might finally complete her, but she’s desisted in trying a while ago. It’s not good, she figures, to hope for the forgotten. “Did you?”

She thinks she sounds eager, hopeful perhaps, and curses herself; but it does the trick. He sighs, relents and looks down as well, beaten. Their eyes meet again, but she can’t read him now, though the hostility is partially gone, and she wonders.

“I did,” he says. Brief, but also comforting, she thinks.

“Was I--?” but she stops. She can’t find the words, not the right ones at least, and she refrains. A moment passes before he moves again. He starts towards the glass door, the one that goes to the other side, and then she speaks, “I’m missing something.”

“What?” it’s pure reaction, someone asking to repeat the words. But he turns towards her again, his full attention on her.

“I’m missing something,” she closes her eyes, tries to catch that fleeting sensation, that abandoned feeling of a memory. A recollection lost somewhere within her mind, calling out her name and hiding in the dark corners of her brain. She feels it but can’t quite grasp at it; it’s unsettling, but she’s concentrating, aware of its existence. She frowns and says, “I’m missing—someone.”

Peter looks at her stunned, surprised. He doesn’t know whether to believe her or not, but he takes a wild guess; he knows Olivia Dunham, he _knows_ her, whether she’s from one universe or the other, he _knows_ her. And he knows when she’s untruthful.

Right now, she’s not.

“Who?”

And then she opens her eyes, the realization hitting her with a momentum equal to that of its inexistence. She hesitates, but she answers. “My son.”

It’s final, and it makes sense. She sees it now; she sees it with a clear mind; a son, she had a _son_ , a baby boy, in another timeline, in another life, but she knows it’s happened; it makes sense, she doesn’t know how, but it does, and that void inside of her, that longing, is suddenly explained.

Olivia looks at him; he’s just as bewildered as she is, and he doesn’t comprehend what she’s just said. “Your… son?”

So she looks at him with puzzled eyes; wasn’t he supposed to know everything about them?

“I… I’m not sure why I said that,” and it’s true, she isn’t sure where her sudden recollection (or is it dreams?) came from, but she’s sure she doesn’t know why or how a lot of things have happened lately. Olivia closes her eyes again, searching for an answer that’s not there. “I just—I just had these flashes, these dream-like memories,” she looks at him again, “of a son. A baby boy.”

So she stares at him, eyes still questioning; she wants so desperately to find an answer, something, ( _someone)_ to fill that disturbing emptiness that she’ll do everything she can to _understand_. There has to be a reason for these—memories, _there has to_ , she thinks desperately; there has to be a logical explanation for her dreams, for her emotions, for this bareness.

So she waits for him to give her that. An explanation.

But he’s still looking at her, a disoriented expression over his features, his brows frowning in deep concentration, his gaze lost somewhere in the cold monochromatic floor tiles. He’s as lost as she is, she thinks, if not more.

“I’m sorry,” it’s quiet, regretful, and they’re both struck by the truthfulness of his words. He sighs. “I’m sorry, I don’t--” Peter can’t figure it out, he can’t make it work in his head, in his timeline, and somehow he can’t provide for what she’s looking for. He thinks it ironic how the roles have reversed, how he knows more of her than she of him, how she’s looking for answers in him.

Their gazes meet and for moment he thinks he gets it; he thinks he gets all of the nonsense that’s been happening, all of the drivel. For a moment he thinks he’s going to collapse, a momentary shortness of breath making him crave for fresh air, a sudden rush of adrenaline making his muscles twitch and yearn to leap from where he stands. _Breathe_ , he reminds himself. _Breathe_.

But then she breaks her stare, looks down again, only to look up a second later, her trademark grin back on, a wall already building behind her eyes. “I guess sometimes answers lead to more questions, huh?” she chuckles, though whether it’s from sarcasm or frustration he can’t tell. She grabs the folder that’s lays forgotten over her desk and holds it up. “You’ll have a full review tomorrow,” her grin is briefly gone, a flicker of something else passing through her face, but again, he can’t quite read her, though he has an idea. He decides to let it go, to let the subject go for now, unable to supply with a satisfying response. He doubts he ever will, in all honesty. Nodding, he purses his lips and turns, once again, to leave, all previous emotions gone and forgotten, repressed and ignored.

As he goes she stares at his back, following his form until it leaves the room. When he’s gone she releases all the air she didn’t know she’d been holding, the air burning through her lungs, her breath suddenly quavering from the tension. She doesn’t have any concrete answers, not by a long shot, but there’s something comforting about the earlier conversation; she thinks maybe someday, somehow, she’ll be able to find the answers she’s been looking for, starting by a guy named Peter Bishop.


End file.
